breathe in, breathe out
by flaveaa
Summary: People disappeared and Steve started to draw. (Steve tried to comfort the others through drawings)


He drew Groot first.

He felt a great urge to draw when he accidentally overheard Rocket and Thor talking to each other, Rocket telling Thor about Groot—badmouthing the tree but with a lot of sadness interlaced in his tone. He didn't listen more, letting Thor being the one who comforted the racoon. He retreated to his chamber when Rocket said, _'You know what his last word was? It's Dad. He fucking called me his_ Dad', and brought out the sketchbook and pencils that had been untouched for a long time.

Drawing Groot was easy. Despite their meeting being fleeting, he remembered clearly how Groot looked like. Despite being a talking tree, Groot looked determined when he fought his opponents. There was fire when he yelled 'I AM GROOT!'. So, he tried to draw what he remembered, but he added Rocket there, sitting on Groot's shoulder.

It didn't take a long time for him to draw Groot and Rocket, but it took hours before he dared himself to approach Rocket. They didn't know each other well and he wasn't sure how Rocket would react to this. He went out, not realizing that it was already late into the night and that there was a chance that he wouldn't find Rocket. He found him anyway, sitting at the same place as he was a few hours ago, only Thor wasn't there. Steve tapped the racoon's shoulder, making him turned his head to Steve, looking agitated.

"What?!"

Steve handed the sketch, unsure of what to say. He ended up not saying anything, feeling grateful that Rocket didn't say anything as he looked at the drawing, he frowned, but the frown disappeared as he recognized the sketch. He accepted the paper, pulling it close to his chest, still not saying anything.

They stood in silence for a while before Rocket finally said, "Your buddy had a metal arm and a freaking cool gun."

Steve was surprised. He didn't know that Rocket knew that Bucky was his friend.

"I wanted to steal both."'

* * *

After he gave Thor his drawing of Loki, Thor pulled him into a tight hug.

Thor didn't let go, he hugged Steve until he relaxed into the hug and hug him back. It was weird, Thor's hug made him feel comforted, something he didn't know he needed. It made him felt a little twinge of happiness, too, knowing that he had managed to comfort Thor, even if it wasn't much.

He knew that Thor lost so much. His whole family was gone, as well as a lot of his people. Thor must be hurting so much. On top of everything, Thor felt an enormous guilt for not killing Thanos right away, despite everyone trying to assure him that it was not his fault. Steve knew how it felt to lost a lot of things at once, yet at the same time it was also different, what Thor and he went through. Thor had to witness people he loved dying right in front of his eyes, but Steve was given the liberty of sleeping through the time when most of the people he loved succumb to old age.

Steve was not that fond of Loki, but he knew that Thor loved his brother dearly. He never met Thor's other relatives, so Loki was the only one he could draw. He remembered clearly too, how Loki looked like. But even though in his memory Loki looked like his heart was full of hatred, he tried to draw him looking content, if not happy. He drew Thor beside of Loki, smiling wildly and full of joy. It took a long time for him to draw them, he was not used to drawing people as he was more used to landscapes and animals, but he tried his best.

"Thank you, Captain," Thor said as he let go of Steve, "This is the greatest gift ever given to me."

Steve chuckled a little, "Please don't exaggerate, it is only a drawing, Thor."

Truthfully, even if he was satisfied with the picture, Steve was not satisfied that there wasn't anything else he could have done for Thor. He wanted to help Thor to go back to be the Thor he knew—the one who didn't look like he had the weight of the world on his shoulder. But he knew that it was hard for Thor.

"Believe me, Captain, I am not exaggerating," Thor assured him, patting his shoulder, looking earnest, "I am sorry that I don't have anything to give you back, but I will find something."

Of course, Thor would want to give him something in return. What wasn't Steve surprised by this?

"There is no need for that, Thor. I don't need anything—wait actually, there is one thing I want."

"What it is?"

"I want you to stop blaming yourself so much."

Steve knew that it was useless to say that, Thor would still be blaming himself. Steve knew guilt, sometimes he was too familiar with guilt.

Thor looked at the drawing again, clenched his jaw, and looked at Steve, "We will find a way to fix this."

It was not a question, but a statement. Steve was not sure if they could fix this, but he found the strength to say, "We will."

* * *

He drew T'Challa sitting on the throne, surrounded by cats. There was one his head, on his shoulder, and his lap, other loitering on the floor while the Wakanda king looked annoyed. He didn't know why he drew T'Challa like that, maybe because they had grown to respect and trust each other and he didn't want to feel sad for losing another comrade. Shuri seemed to like the drawing though. She put it on her lab's wall, next to embarrassing T'Challa's photos that she printed out because she was pissed that T'Challa left her again.

He continued to draw other people, the ones he could remember, at least.

"What are you doing, Steve?" Natasha asked when he was trying to draw Wanda and Vision.

Wanda, who had lost so many things, who had to kill someone she loved only for it to be futile. Wanda, who Steve had thought of as his own sister, someone he wanted to protect. It was hard, trying to draw Wanda, because it hurt. It hurt a lot. He had failed Wanda and in extension, Pietro, because even though no one knew, Steve had sworn to protect Wanda in place of Pietro.

"Drawing?" Steve answered. Shouldn't it be obvious? _You are supposed to be a spy, Natasha,_ he wanted to say.

"I can see that," Natasha said with a sigh, as if she was dealing with a child, "But you haven't been sleeping for days, you have been drawing continuously, what are you trying to do, Steve?"

Steve stopped drawing and looked at Natasha. He wanted to argue that it wasn't like Natasha had been sleeping well. She didn't look good and he knew that her nights of sleep were fitful. But he knew Natasha would point out that she at least got some sleep, unlike him.

It was true that he hadn't been sleeping. It was true that he had been drawing a lot, only stopping when he had other matters to do, like discussing with the other on what they had to do next or giving the drawings he had made. So instead of arguing, he sighed and answered, "Because I can't do anything, Natasha. People are mourning, but I can't fix this. I can't help them."

"So you draw for them?"

"I don't know anything else to do."

He felt so helpless. People turned into dust and everyone were devastated. It was a mess and he couldn't do anything. He felt guilty for not being able to stop this from happening. He wanted to comfort other people, every time he saw someone looked so grieved, he grew more and more helpless. He wanted to be able to do something.

Natasha closed his book without his permission and said, "You won't be able to do anything if you died from lack of sleep."

That was silly. He wouldn't die from mere lack of sleep. He opened his mouth to argue, but Natasha cut him off, "Please, Steve? We have lost so much, I don't want to lose you too."

He closed his mouth. Even though he still wanted to argue, something in the way Natasha looked at him made him stop. Natasha was begging him, begging him to do what she wanted. She was being honest when she said she didn't want to lose him, too.

"Fine."

Natasha smiled, even though it wasn't really genuine. She forced him into the bed and threatened to kill him before leaving if he got up and draw again.

As he laid in bed, his mind drifted off to the moment when Bucky started to fade—turning into dust. At that time, he barely registered what was happening. He remembered searching for Sam, refusing to believe that Sam disappeared too because no one saw him. He remembered all the time he lost Bucky and laughed bitterly because he never expected to lose Sam too. His mind kept flashing back to all the moments when they were so good to him, when they were so patience of him despite his baggage.

It was so unfair. If anyone had to die, it should have been him.

Those thoughts never crossed his mind when he was busy drawing other people, when he was busy taking care of other people. He finally realized, it was not only helplessness that made him draw.

He drew because he was running away from his own grief.

* * *

It took a week before he managed to finish his drawing of Wanda and Vision at the altar, saying vows to each other.

He never managed to draw Bucky and Sam.

It was too painful and too much to deal with.

 **End**

 **Note:**

this have been a plot bunny since I watched IW, I really should work on my thesis instead of writing this so please forgive me if this was a mess. If anyone is willing to beta this, it will be welcome.


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